


Path of Salvation

by DragonsAndLionsOhMy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Oberyn Martell, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, House Martell, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Oberyn Martell Lives, POV Sansa Stark, Past Violence, Pegging, Porn With Plot, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsAndLionsOhMy/pseuds/DragonsAndLionsOhMy
Summary: Oberyn Martell comes to King's Landing before Sansa Stark is wed, and thinks his sister has sent her into his path for a reason. Can he save her? Sansa is desperate for an escape, but will she trust the Dornishman who promises to take her away to a place where she will never feel pain?Note: Sansa is aged up to 18, canon divergence set around the time of Sansa's wedding.
Relationships: Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand/Sansa Stark, Oberyn Martell/Sansa Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 185





	1. The Doe in the Woods

"Prince Oberyn, well met."The lion looked old, Oberyn thought, his grizzled grey whiskers twitching in fury at the Dornishman who had appeared in the Red Keep before him.

"Am I? I did not think I would receive such a welcome."

"I assume your brother sent you."

"Prince Doran regrets that his gout has confined him to Sunspear. I am here to represent Dorne, and all her interests." Even her justice, Oberyn thought. For he had come on his brother's request, to take up a seat on the small council, but he also had his own reasons to be in the capital. And one way or another, the lions would choke on Dornish sourwine. 

"Good then. You will join us tomorrow morning. Has my daughter seen to your accomodations?" As if Oberyn would stay in the Red Keep longer than necessary. Sleeping in a featherbed down the hall from where his sister had been murdered, and her precious babes smeared across the flagstones. 

"I will make my own arrangements, Lord Lannister. Until the morning, then." He bowed just enough to appease the balding murderer before he exited with bold strides, intent on making his way down into the city.

Only to bump into the rounded, perfumed form of Varys, the Spider, whose powdered lips were quirked up in amusement.

"Prince Oberyn, it is a delight to have you amongst us." A lie. Everything in this place was a lie. Poison dripped from courtier's lips far more than from his own spear. And yet he was the one with the venomous reputation.

"I am glad my endeavours serve to bring you such pleasure, Lord Varys. I aim to please."

"We could all use a little more pleasure in these turbulent times. Particularly those amongst us who have lost so much."

"What has anyone in this gods-forsaken place lost, pray tell? You all seem to be getting fat off your winnings."

"Ah, then you have not heard of our northern guest?"

~~

He first saw her from across the Godswood, that pale princess with hair like fire. From a distance, she appeared to his eyes to be a most devout creature, bowed in supplication before her ancient, incomprehensible Gods. But as he approached, careful not to disturb her, the sounds of her soft weeping were unmistakeable.

“My lady,” his words were spoken as softly as the Red Viper was capable, yet she jumped up and away from him as though they were a lash.

“Your highness…forgive me.” Her voice trembled and cracked, even as she frantically wiped all evidence of her distress from her delicate features. She looked strangely older than her 18 years, he thought, something in her eyes which spoke of too many horrors witnessed for one so young.

“Forgive you? My dearest lady, how am I to forgive you when you have done nothing to offend me so?” He gave her a roguish smile to ease his words lest she run from him and all be lost.

“I…”

“In any case, it is me who should be forgiven, my lady, for disturbing you at your prayers. It was most unkind.” The girl before him blinked, as though she could not conceive of the idea of anyone desiring her forgiveness. Perhaps, he thought, she could not, given her reported treatment at the hands of the lions. His stomach stirred with an old hatred at the thought of what those monsters would do to any fair lady to cross their path.

“You are forgiven, your highness. Rest assured you caused me no distress.” Such a sweet voice, for such a broken woman. Yet there was something in the way she uttered those words, the way she had placed the emphasis, that told him more about her than anything else.

“I have not, but perhaps other monsters have? Perhaps they are to blame for your despair, sweet lady?” There was a fire in her eyes then, a fire which spoke of the wolf within, thus far subdued.

“If only there were a handsome prince to slay the monsters, like in the songs,” she challenged.

“Ah but am I not known as the most handsome prince of all? Or has one of my nephews stolen my crown? Perhaps Prince Tommen is comelier than I?” Flirting with her was a dangerous sport, all told, but let it not be said that Oberyn Martell was a man to flee from danger.

“I have never met your nephews, your highness, but I would venture to say that you are the most reputable prince of Dorne, whatever their looks.” Clever, this girl was, and with a sharper tongue than he had thought to find in the hostage princess, startling a short laugh out of him. Still, there was a nervousness in her countenance which was not reflected in her voice. She held herself as though poised to run, a northern doe in the dappled sunlight of the wood.

“And you are as famous a beauty as your lady aunt ever was,” then his tone turned sombre, “but I hope you meet with a more auspicious fate than her, my lady.”

“Indeed, it was a tragedy which befell my aunt Lyanna, as it was a tragedy that befell your own royal sister, your highness.”

“What happened to my sister was no tragedy. It was a man. A great, terrible man, wielded as a weapon against a defenceless woman and her young babes.” His fury was palpable, and he quickly realised his mistake as Lady Sansa took three faltering steps backwards towards her heart tree, as though seeking shelter from his rage in its boughs.

“Ah, I am afraid I must beg your forgiveness once more, gentle lady, for I have frightened you twice, and it is only our first meeting.”

“I…forgive you, your highness. But I pray you must excuse me; I am meeting the Lady Margaery for tea.” And with footsteps as hurried and fleeting as her words, she was gone in a whirl of fire and silk, leaving the prince to contemplate this most curious of women.

Perhaps, he thought, you have placed her here in my path for a reason, sweet sister. A creature tormented as you were in the end. Did you mean for me to meet her here? Is your path for me not one of blood, but one instead of salvation? Is this my penance for my failure to save you? Yet his questions, as always, went unanswered, his sister nothing but a memory of spiced perfume.

~~

The second time he saw Sansa Stark was barely a week later, on her wedding day, and she was ugly in her splendour. Her gown was finest cloth-of-gold, her hair a blazing crown. Yet her face was pale and pinched, and her walk weighted with grief. It was a cruel torment, even by Lannister standards, to marry her off to the imp, to force her to wear the name and bear the heirs of a house which had massacred her own. Small comfort that the dwarf himself seemed ill at ease with the whole affair, for the King was beside her as she entered the Sept, pouring poison into her ears.

The ceremony was blessedly short, and gods bless her for her strength, for the lady did not falter even when Tywin’s spawn wrapped her in a crimson cloak. Crimson, the same as the one in which Elia’s broken body had been delivered to Dorne. The same as the colour of the blood which Oberyn so fervently desired to spill. It seemed a cruel jape, that Oberyn should fail to save a second lady from being wrapped in crimson. He would drink that night, he knew, drink until his head was clouds and he did not have to think of poor sweet Sansa Stark, bleeding in her marriage bed. He hoped that she would drink too, all the better to stomach the violation.


	2. Wolf in Lion's Clothing

Sansa Lannister. She could hardly bear it. To have to walk for the rest of her life, with not even her name to comfort her and remind her of home. The maids took a sick pleasure in addressing her as “Lady Lannister”, no doubt on Queen Cersei’s orders. Only Shae still whispered “Lady Stark” in her mistress’ ear when no others were around.

She had been a woman married for a fortnight, though it felt all at once like nothing and an eternity. The weight of the ring around her finger felt like a shackle, and her rooms with Tyrion a gilded cage. They have won, she thought bitterly, for Robb is dead and there is no-one to save me. Tyrion will tire of playing the saviour eventually and will claim his marital rights. Once he does, I shall die entirely.

It was kind of him not to have taken her that first night, and he seemed to uphold that kindness since. He gave her lemon cakes which went uneaten, jewels which went unworn, and when all that failed, space in which to grieve. She spent her wedded days staring out of the window of her bower, counting the ships on the horizon, and sometimes wondering how far she would fall if she should happen to tumble. Her hair would stream behind her like a banner, as she met the fate of Queen Helaena Targaryen on the stones below.

“My lady,” Shae’s gentle probe pulled Sansa from her wondering. “Would you care to take a turn in the gardens today? I hear the geraniums are in bloom.”

Shae was always finding ways to while away the day, concerned for her mistress. Sansa wondered how much longer she would have the woman by her side, before a Lannister stole even that small relief from her.

“Yes, I think that might be nice. Just for a short while.” Shae fetched her shawl for her, ever mindful of her lady’s fair skin, though truthfully Sansa thought it might be nice to blister and burn, the boils keeping Tyrion from her bed for a while longer.

The pair descended through the castle, and Sansa was mindful to keep an even, ladylike pace. It would not do to appear hurried, nor to dawdle. Careful as she was these days, she kept making mistakes, like when she had practically run from Prince Oberyn and his heated gaze. Or when she had stumbled and fallen on the ground a few days after her wedding, faint from hunger and sorrow. She was sure that neither event had gone unnoticed, and now more than ever she had to be perfect.

The gardens of the Red Keep were a beauty which contained all manner of tortures. The hot sun threatened her, the perfumed plants choked her, and around every corner were roses, or worse, white cloaks. Nothing like the ancient Godswood of Winterfell, with its peaceful carpet of leaves, this was a place of politics and pain. Sansa feared both in equal measure.

“There you are, bitch. I was wondering where you’ve been. Uncle finally released you from his bed?” Sansa froze, head turned towards the ground even as her eyes cast about wildly for an escape.

“Your grace,” she curtsied deeply, not daring to look him in the eye as he stopped close to her.

“You look pale, aunt. Tired. You know I prefer you pretty.”

“My apologies, your grace.”

“Has my uncle been keeping you up at night? I hear he has quite the reputation with the whores. Does he bring them into your marriage bed? Do you perform for him whilst he watches?” The king licked his fat lips so they gleamed wetly. “I wonder…should I honour you with a visit myself? What do you say to that, aunt?”

“Your grace may do as he pleases, although I am sure my lord husband would be most displeased.”

“It is a good thing, then, that I don’t care about what pleases your lord husband, isn’t it? Perhaps Ser Meryn would like to join me. What would your lord husband say to that, Lady Sansa?”

“I’m sure I would not know, your grace.” She prayed this humiliation would end swiftly, but she knew the king was like to keep here as long as pleased him, unless some other diversion came along, and she could escape.

“Of course you wouldn’t know. You are so very stupid. Ser Meryn, remind Lady Sansa of how stupid she is.” Sansa braced for the blow, shielding her fragile stomach with her arms. But the blow never came.

“I am sure, your grace, that you did not mean for your Kingsguard to strike a highborn lady,” came the purring voice of Prince Oberyn Martell, a dagger edged in silk.

“I did. And you cannot interfere with the King’s business, snake.”

“Ah, but I am a knight of this realm, sworn to protect the innocent. I do not see evidence that the lady has committed any crime warranting such a punishment.”

“She has offended me, her king. She must be reminded of her place.”

“Well then, your grace, allow me to stand for the lady. I am far more suited to bearing such a blow.”

Sansa’s head shot up and she stared at the foolish prince in incredulity. How could he think to take a blow meant for her? But the king, satisfied that he would gain his desired humiliation from one victim rather than another, had already agreed. She could only stand by and watch as Ser Meryn drove his mailed fist deep into the other man’s stomach.

The prince’s breath left him in an almost seductive sigh even as his body crumpled to the ground. Sansa, frozen in fear, could do nothing but watch as the King and his armoured cronies departed, before she rushed to his side.

“Are you alright, your highness? Shall I send for a maester?” She fretted over him, but he was already rolling to his knees, then feet.

“No need, gentle lady, I have felt far worse, and it was an honour to gain such a wound defending your honour.” His voice was gentle, and he seemed more concerned with her wellbeing than his own. Sansa could not help the little voice in the back of her head which said only fools tried to save her, and this man would end up like the rest of them.

“You should not have done that. He will only find another reason tomorrow.”

“Then I shall add to my bruises tomorrow, and any other day upon which our king sees fit to torment you, my lady.” He does not take this threat seriously, she thought. I did not at first, but I learnt. Slowly, but I did.

“That is most…generous…of you to offer, your highness, but unnecessary. Nonetheless, you have my thanks, you are as noble a prince as any.” She curtsied deeply, then made to move off, hoping that her polite refusal would satisfy him.

“Lady Sansa,” he called after her, “you appear to have dropped your shawl.” Indeed, he was grasping the thin fabric in one tanned, calloused hand.

“My thanks, your highness.” As she went to take it from him, he suddenly seized her about the wrist. The feel of his calloused hand should have inspired fear in her, for all the other times when she had felt sword callouses in recent history it had preceded pain, but she was curiously unafraid.

“Should you need anything from me, I am your humble servant, my lady.”

“The only thing I need is that which even you cannot give me, your highness.”

“Oh?” She feared he had taken her words as a challenge, yet she could not stop her mouth before she next spoke.

“I need freedom.”


	3. Worship the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is pure porn, if that isn't your thing, don't read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit sex between two consenting partners.

Ellaria grazed her fingers gently over the blossoming bruise on his belly as they lounged in their borrowed manse at the base of Rhaenys’ Hill, and Oberyn felt his cock stir at the feel of her silken touch.

“Does it hurt?” She murmured to him, and he sighed softly as her touch deepened.

“Deliciously,” he whispered into the thick black locks of her hair. She poked the bruise hard in response and he groaned.

“Woman, don’t tease.”

“Woman?” Her response was cutting, and he felt his manhood harden further at her tone. He ran his hand up the silken length of her arm but when went to pull her across his chest, she trapped his wrist in her own.

“You were foolish, my lover, and it does not become you.” Her tone was scolding, and he both feared and desired what punishment she was sure to dole out. His sweet lover, how she burned like her namesake under the heat of the sun.

She rolled from the bed in one smooth move, striding across to the wooden chests they kept across the room. From within the uppermost chest, she removed a small vial, and a parcel wrapped in sunset-orange fabric. Oberyn smirked at his lover delightedly as she faced him, clutching her prizes.

“Some would call this a waste of blade oil.”

“They do not know what they are missing, then.” She approached the bed, and unwrapped the fabric to reveal a glass phallus, one of the unspoken treasures of Myr. With a delighted grin, she pressed the phallus into one of his hands.

“Warm it for yourself, love, for I will not.” He shivered, taking the phallus and pressing it between his lips, holding it gently atop his tongue as he felt the saliva pool. In his eagerness to enjoy the sensation of the hard shaft between his teeth, stoppering all speech, he had forgotten about his lover’s other prize. Her questing fingers, slicked with his own fragrant blade oil, were unerring in their ability to pinpoint his most private of places. Indeed, even as he suckled on the glass phallus as though it were that of one of his preferred men, she had breached him with first one, then two, slender digits.

The feel of his clutching rim being opened on her fingers made him groan around his gag, and when she brushed his inner gland, he sent a muffled prayer to whichever gods cared to listen. Gods knew how he loved her; how lucky he was she had chosen him.

“Easy, love, you wouldn’t want to spoil the fun so soon,” her voice held a teasing lilt, but her fingers were harsh as they thrummed insistently inside him. Sweet pleasure held a hint of pain as her ministrations made him buck and the bruise on his stomach throbbed.

“Oh poor love, look at you,” The witch cackled softly as she placed a kiss directly upon his nipple, her teeth catching it ever so slightly as she pulled away. But his suffering was not prolonged, for she pulled the phallus from his mouth in a smooth, wet stroke.

Oberyn ached to touch her, but he knew the rules of this game, so kept his fists clenched by his sides as she threw one toned thigh over his waist to face away from him. Her fingers left his body, and his hole fluttered in protest. But his lover was merciful, and merely slicked oil over the phallus before nudging it slowly inside him, filling him with heat from his own mouth, delivered by her guiding hand. She sank the phallus in as deep as it would go, until the base whispered against his rim, before lowering herself onto his shaft. For today, he was her toy as much as the phallus was his.

“Oh love, how you feel inside me…” Her composure gone, she was panting, and he was graced with the view of a single droplet of sweat trailing down her toned back to meet the cleft of her buttocks. With that, she started to move, rolling her hips in sensual circles as she thrust the phallus in and out of her lover’s arse. Oberyn was overwhelmed, caught between her cunt and the hard phallus as he was, he could only submit to the sensations washing over him in waves of pleasure.

“Please, lover, have mercy on your servant.” He cried in tormented agony, but his lover only smiled over her shoulder as she gave a particularly hard thrust into him. He clenched his eyes shut, desperately holding back until she released him. And soon he felt the fluttering in her thighs, and the change in her pitch, which meant her pleasure was upon her. She rolled and bucked, back arching so her ebony hair brushed the violent bruise on his stomach, and he was gone. Consumed by his passion.

They lay together then, phallus slipped from him to be cradled by his slick thighs, Ellaria nestled beneath his chin.

“Do you truly believe you can save her?”

“It is not belief that drives me. I must save her, lover, else I will have failed not only as a prince, as a knight, but as a man.”

“Then let us take the woman kissed by fire to a place where men will worship her as the sun.”


	4. Across the Battlefields, Silence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our fair lady finds some peace in the torment of her life.

The rustle of her skirts seemed impossibly loud amongst the quiet of the garden. There once was a time when she had revelled in the sounds of expensive fabrics trailing behind her. What a naïve child she had been, she thought. The Lannisters had cured her of that naivety, first when they took her father’s head, then Robb’s and mother’s. There was no innocence left in her mind anymore, not now that she was intimately acquainted with the horrors of the world.

The lash marks on her back burned like her vengeance, a reminder of all that she had lost. No, not lost. It had been stolen from her. If her innocence had been lost she might seek to regain it, but she burned with a vengeance even she could not truly comprehend. But maybe, if his eyes spoke true, the man in front of her could.

“My lady, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” His voice was as gentle as his strong hands, guiding her to a seat before he took the other across from her.

“Your highness, your invitation was unexpected, although not unwelcome.”

“I had thought you may enjoy a game of cyvasse, my lady.”

“Of course, your highness, although I must confess, I do not know how to play. My lord husband once offered to teach me, although I fear his duties have since drawn him from my side too often.” Which was no bad thing, of course. The less time he spent with her, the less time she was forced to place a courteous smile upon her face and play the demure wife.

“A pity, however I confess I am rather glad that I may be the one to teach you, for I am a horrid jealous man, and I greatly enjoy being the first to bring a lady such pleasures.” At that she blushed, for as scandalous as his insinuations were, she was a woman flowered, and not blind to the beauty of the man in front of her, with his crooked smiles and silken words.

“Pray explain the rules of the game then, your highness, and I will endeavour to try, although you must go gentle with me.”

“Always.” It fell from his lips like the most solemn vow, and she felt her heart throb heavily in her chest. His voice was animated, his strong hands sure as he demonstrated the rules of the game. It seemed complicated, and Sansa was sure she had never played such a game of tactics as a child. But the prince was kind, as he always was with her, and neither mocked her in defeat nor coddled her as a child. His japes were filled with levity, his smile a blessing, for in this place of deception he appeared to her the first honest benediction since her father's head had been struck from his shoulders.

How much time had passed, she did not know, lulled into comfort by the prince and his relaxed ways, so different from all the others with which she spent her days in the palace. Gradually, she felt her posture relax, the tension fading from her bones as it had not in so many years. She felt she had smiled more true smiles over the course of a single afternoon than she had since leaving Winterfell. How cruel were the gods, to grant her such happiness once more, when she had all but forgotten its taste? She was certain it would be ripped from her in time, as all else was, but would it really be so bad to enjoy it for the time being?

It was their fourth – or maybe fifth – game, and she could feel herself improving, Oberyn laughing delightedly as she moved to corner his rabble with her dragon, a bold move she would not have tried just a few scant hours beforehand.

“Sansa.” She startled at the curt tone of the man who stood behind her, glaring daggers at her companion.

“My lord,” She stood quickly and curtsied deeply to her husband even as his mismatched eyes fell over her face in an invasive examination.

“You are expected to join me for dinner tonight with his grace and my family,” his tone was not unkind, but as always, he was the deliverer of bad news, and she could not help her small flinch.

“Of course, my lord,” she turned back to the prince, whose eyes were the warm fires of Winterfell’s hearths as she addressed him, “Pray excuse me, your highness, but I hope we shall have the opportunity to play again sometime.”

His lips quirked at her, clearly amused by the return of her courtly manners, and he nodded with all the dangerous grace of his namesake, his voice over the sounds of her name as he dismissed her with a simple “Lady Sansa”.

Her pace was hurried as she moved to return to her rooms to change, but not in fear as it so often was. No, something else set her to motion now, and it was a giddy sort of madness.

“Shae, I will be dining with the king and his family this evening, please prepare me a suitable outfit whilst I bathe.” The Lorathi woman knew exactly the sort of humble finery Sansa required, enough to satisfy Tyrion’s father and the king both. Meanwhile, Sansa released her hair from its clasps and set to brushing the flaming waterfall of locks until they gleamed, her mind lost in the feel of the silken strands, and wondering if the princes own flowing ebony locks would feel as soft. Part of her said her mother would be ashamed at her, betraying her lord husband in thought if nothing else. But whilst she pitied her husband, and was grateful for his care, she did not love him, nor did he excite her in the way the girl inside her longed to feel.

~~

Prepared for her husband to escort her to dinner, Sansa could not seem to stop running her trembling fingers along the fabric of her skirts, the cold metal clasped around her wrists, and the fluttering pulse at the base of her neck. Her skin felt hot, as though feverish, but her mind was less fogged by pain and grief than it had been.

The sound of the door made her turn, and she found her husband staring at her curiously, as though she was a particularly difficult Yi Ti’ish puzzle box he needed to solve.

“You seem...different, my lady wife.” She froze, a deer caught at the end of a crossbow's hairs. What did he see? Did he know her silent betrayals? Would this be the moment where his kindness turned to cruelty?

“Different, my lord?”

“Happy.” A small smile lit his face, pleased to have figured her out. Such a damned clever man. Her smile turned forced; her fingers stilled.

But her husband merely clasped her fingers gently. “Peace, sweet lady. I wish I could be the one to ease your pain so, but I have only ever wanted it to be eased.”

His eyes, she realised, had never looked so honest. A moment of clarity, a second of stillness across the battlefield raging between their lives.

“I could never be happy here.” A whisper, a damnation. His smile was a slash of pain which reflected her own, and in that moment she understood. She was not the only prisoner here.


	5. More Than One Way To Skin A Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oberyn finds himself an unlikely ally.

The Tower of the Hand was stifling in the late summer heat as Oberyn marched up the many stairs. He longed for the crisp heat of Dorne, and the gentle breeze that rolled up through Sunspear carrying the scent of the city and the sea beyond. Here what breeze there was – and there was little – only smelt of desperation and rot. It seemed a fitting smell for such a place.

He arrived at Lord Tywin’s solar, brushing past the guards before they could announce him. He was expected, after all, and Lord Tywin not so old that his instincts would not tell him of the predator’s approach.

The lion was writing a letter, no doubt to bring ruin upon some other unsuspecting soul. How many had died because of Lord Tywin’s letters, he wondered as he took a seat across from the man.

“You wanted to speak to me, my Lord Hand?” He kicked his feet up onto the table to irritate the man.

Lord Tywin finished signing his many blood-soaked titles, and set his quill down deliberately, jaw clenched. Oberyn would have feared for the man’s teeth, but well, one does not tend to be concerned with their mortal enemy’s enamel.

“You have been in the capital for quite some time now, yet you have not been attending Small Council meetings as expected.”

“Nor have I massacred every golden-haired man in the city. Consider my ambivalence a blessing.”

“Ambivalence? I do not think you capable of such a thing.”

“Patience then, if you prefer to call it such. In any case, is it not best that I refrain from shedding blood so close to his grace’s royal wedding?”

“His grace will undoubtedly arrange for his own bloodshed.”

“Undoubtedly. Lady Margaery is beguiling, but even her hold on him is…tenuous. And we both remember well what happened last time a king could not be controlled.” Oberyn felt a dark satisfaction at the way the man’s jaw clenched, no doubt remembering his repeated humiliations at the hands of another mad king.

“Indeed. Perhaps we may find our interests aligned after all.” At this, Oberyn straightened. He thought the seven hells would freeze before the lion admitted common interests.

“Oh?”

“You wish for vengeance for your sister. I want a king more easily guided. Perhaps, we have something to offer each other.”

“Kingslaying and kinslaying are both sins in the eyes of the gods.”

“Good, then, that we are neither of us are godly men.” No, they were not. They were men of earthly folly, earthly greed, and in Oberyn’s case, earthly pleasures.

“Nor are we fools. I will need…assurances…of your promises.” The fact went unsaid that he did not trust the man as far as he could throw him.

“Ser Amory Lorch frequents an inn in Flea Bottom. ‘The Hogs Head’. You might find him there.”

“And the other?”

“To be delivered after you carry out your end of the deal.”

The two locked eyes, and he nodded once. It was a curious thing, he reflected, the shifting winds of politics in the capital. Two enemies, diametrically opposed for twenty years, both laying their conflict aside for a later date in order that they would live to see that later date.

Oberyn climbed to his feet, dismissing himself with a short bow, and moving to leave. But before he could reach the door, it opened, and in walked the other shame of House Lannister.

“Prince Oberyn!” The Imp’s wide eyes flicked between his father and the prince, as if expecting to find some mortal wound.

“Lord Tyrion,” he merely murmured, and brushed past the diminutive man, frozen by the door. As he paused on the other side of the door, though, he heard the beginning strains of the conversation.

“I would have thought you smart enough to make use of my most generous gift. But whispers have reached me that she bled this morning.”

“She is young, father, there is time yet for that.”

“There must be no doubt of the consummation of your marriage, not whilst our enemies still lick their wounds and eye us from afar. She is the key to half these seven kingdoms, and you will not squander her for a dalliance with a whore.”

“Father…”

Oberyn had heard enough. So, the little lord did not wish to bed his young wife? He could understand why, given that her slender figure did little to remind one that she was indeed a woman flowered. And perhaps the lord felt pity for his family’s plaything. No matter the reason, the lions had rewarded his patience richly this day. Soon he would have the heads of Elia’s killers, and perhaps, if he played his cards right, he would earn himself a richer prize yet to take back to Dorne.

A plan of many virtues, but first, he would have to find Ellaria. There was celebrating to be done.


	6. Ring The Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've always hated the bells. They ring for horror, a dead king, a city under siege."  
> "A wedding."  
> "Exactly."  
> (Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion Lannister, Season 2, Ep 9)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is staying safe in these tough times.

The court was in uproar, the booming voice of Gregor Clegane loudest of all. He was being held back by four red-cloaks, yet still looked apt to break free of their hold.

“Murderous snake! Venomous bastard! I’ll kill you!” Sansa flinched back, even though there was at least a hundred people between him and her. But Prince Oberyn merely smirked back at the man, purring,

“I would not think it wise to cast about accusations such as murder, especially without proof.”

“You arrive in the capital, and not two months later, Ser Amory Lorch dies. Your hatred of him is well known, Price Oberyn.” And there was Lord Tywin, his face glacial.

“Yet there were no witnesses, and no evidence to tie me to the deed. Proof is such a troublesome burden, I have found.” If ever there was truth in the bravery of Dorne, it was on display today, for surely no other would speak with such irreverence in front of the king.

“Ser Gregor, be silent. You may rest assured that the crown will find the truth in this matter. Lord Varys will see to it.” Sansa knew better than to trust the king’s promised justice. She had no doubt that either some innocent or other would find themselves dead before he was through. Seeking an escape, she moved back away from the edge of the balcony from where she had been observing the day’s proceedings, heading for the holdfast.

She did not even make it halfway.

“Lady Sansa, what a pleasant surprise!” The future queen’s voice was as sweet as her smile.

“Lady Margaery,” the two curtsied politely to each other, Sansa slightly deeper than the other. Better never to appear a threat.

“I was hoping you might assist me with some of the wedding preparations. I am told you have a fair hand for embroidery.”

“It would be my pleasure, my lady. How may I assist you?”

“I was hoping you might be willing to help me with some wedding favours. Silk roses, one for each of our esteemed guests. A memento of the occasion.” Boring, tedious work, which would surely go unappreciated. But she could not possibly refuse the future queen.

“I would be delighted.”

“Marvellous! I’m sure my ladies will be delighted to have you join us.” And with that, the future queen’s sewing circle was to become her next prison. At least this one would have tea and cakes.

~~

As expected, the silk roses were a waste of fabric and time. The finest red silk, thread-of-gold, and for each a Tyrell-green ribbon. A beautiful symbol. Sansa hated it with every fibre of her being. Her fingers ached, her eyes prickled, and her back felt like it was on fire. Yet every day without fail, she returned to the Tyrell chambers, to stitch pointless fripperies until her fingers bled. At least there the only danger was her needle, and she could be mostly forgotten if she kept her head lowered to her work. Days were passed in the laughing company of the rose and her entourage, nights alone shivering in the dark.

Until the day of the king’s wedding arrived to the sound of bells, ringing out across the city. Shae dressed her in lavender, as close to grey as she dared to go, and placed jewels around her neck and in her hair. She looked every inch the princess her father had once promised she would be.

She would walk naked through the wedding if it would bring her father back.

Tyrion was dressed in his family’s colours, of course. The lions would be plentiful today, a pride on the hunt, and the king at their head. Sansa wondered if Margaery really knew what she was going to be wed to.

The Sept was beautiful, stained glass and richly embroidered banners casting a halo of colours about the heads of the king and queen as they wed. He held her hands as tenderly as he had once held Sansa’s, and she flinched at the thought of how quickly his chivalry had faded and the monster had emerged.

The ride back to the Red Keep was as different to her last outing as night was to day. Once, the people had revolted, now they revelled. They were as fickle to the winds of fate as the court. Sansa sat in an open carriage, Tyrion by her side, Tywin and Cersei across from them. Cersei’s face was fixed in a dazzling smile, but her eyes glowed like wildfire. Perhaps it was not Joffrey that Sansa needed to warn Margaery about, but his mother, whose hands were clenching as though she wished to reach out and tear the new queen apart.

Upon entering the gardens of the Red Keep, servants were handing out the fabric flowers, and as she suspected, most of the guests seemed barely to give them a passing glance. Seventy-seven courses made up the lavish feast, including all manner of beasts of land and sea on large golden platters. Tumblers and jugglers moved through the tables, and a fire-breather startled unsuspecting nobles with large plumes of flame. There was even a troop of performing dwarves, although Sansa tried her best not watch them – it was bad enough to hear of her brother’s death, she did not need to see it re-enacted.

The gift giving proved to be the real spectacle of the day. It was opulent, wasteful, loathsome. In short, the perfect entertainment for a southron wedding. Tyrion’s gift of “The Lives of the Four Kings” was undoubtedly priceless, and shortly enough worthless, too, once Joffrey had reduced it to scraps. The sight of his new sword made tears well in Sansa’s eyes. Not even her father’s blade had survived King’s Landing, instead brutalised and made into a butcher’s plaything. Would the injustice of his death never end?

“Look, the pie!” Ah, sweet Lady Margaery, how soon would he ruin you? But for now she had him, and Sansa was glad to bring an end to his vicious pleasure. Even if the sight of them feeding each other from their hands made her stomach turn in disgust.

And then he coughed. Clutched his chest. Tried to speak. Reached out. Died.

It was over, and then came the chaos. Cersei's screams of horror rang in Sansa's ears, unending until a maester finally forced sweetsleep down her throat. The unbed queen had been rushed away in a flurry of Reach knights, and Sansa and Tyrion were escorted back to their rooms by his father's loyal men. She took it all in without seeing, her mind far away. Only when she was alone did she allow herself a single, private smile at the monster's demise.

And there was silence in the Keep, and distant tolling bells.


End file.
